


Run For Your Life

by sugarboat



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 17:19:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7062157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Micolash finds a new way to examine the eldritch influence of the Great Ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run For Your Life

The good hunter was going to die again. He could feel it in his limbs, growing heavy; in the ice that was slowly crawling up his spine, that had already loosened his hold on the bloody axe he called his own. Ah, well there was nothing to do for it now. His pouch was empty of blood vials, and the host of the obscure nightmare he’d found himself embroiled within showed no signs of dying anytime soon. Blood loss was stealing the edges of his vision, thick clouds of darkness leaching in from all corners. 

Teeth gritted, the hunter clasped his weapon tighter. It was best to face death head-on, and re-awaken with at least a sense of pride. With his vision wavering, the fog that drifted through the corridors of the labyrinthine library was even more disorienting than before; the fact served only to annoy him. How many times now had he lost his prey in the mist, to be slowly beaten to death by the minions the zealot spawned? He barreled through the halls, up and down endless staircases, avoiding as many of the skeletal phantasms as he could.

Micolash’s words echoed through the nightmare, tinged with the mania of madness. The hunter had heard this all before, again and again, and he longed to plant the wicked edge of his axe into the man’s face. Occasionally the thought would drift across his mind that this would one day be his fate as well. A raving lunatic, trapped in unending night, stalking beasts until his mind was gone, or until he had succumbed to beastdom himself.

Dodging another ethereal walker left him panting for breath, and the hunter took a moment to pause in the next room, pulse beating a steady rhythm in his temples. The numerous wounds and bruises littered across his body throbbed along in time. He walked over to the shattered stone banister, leaned his weight against it. An honorable death was one thing, but this was bordering on humiliating. Perhaps he should just throw himself over the edge, and try again in better health. Still, he had come so far; the lure of the hunt was difficult to overcome.

Slowly, the hunter became aware that he had found a new part of the nightmare, and that Micolash’s echoing voice felt… closer somehow. His nasally, grating tone had the hunter bristling, fingers twitching around the wrapped handle of his weapon. The irritation refocused him, filled him with a sense of purpose – namely to put an end to the zealot once and for all. Well, it was unlikely that he would actually kill his prey, but at least he would have an idea of where to go next round.

Saving himself for the fight head – what little he could accomplish in it – he walked quietly around the edge of the room, following the wooden extension to a novel set of stairs, a hidden room. With the clack of his boots against stone the only accompanying sound, he tread down the stairwell, pausing briefly before the open hole to the floor below before jumping down.

The hunter landed with practiced ease, though his condition had him falter, sent him down to one knee. There at last was the cowardly Micolash, cornered with nowhere left to run. He had little time to appreciate his victory before the student of Mensis was upon him, arm outstretched in the characteristic movement that would have his flesh exploding into a mass of writhing tentacles. The hunter closed his eyes, grimacing, turned his face away in anticipation of death. 

But the cold, shocking plunge of failure didn’t greet him. He heard the awful, wet sound of those tentacles spawning, felt the air crackle and smelt ozone and something sickly sweet, but the expecting impact never came. Instead, he felt dripping tendrils wrap around his shoulders, trapping his arms down and squeezing painfully tight. The hunter opened his eyes, wide, turned back to stare at Micolash.

The man before him was missing his right arm – or more accurately, his arm had been replaced by those tentacles, and the hunter’s stomach turned as he watched them rove over each other, twisting and tangling amongst themselves. The longest and thickest of them led to his body, were the ones digging bruises into his chest and shoulder blades, whatever liquid they were drenched in slowly soaking through the material of his cloak.

“Ahhh, marvelous, hunter, marvelous,” Micolash crooned. A breathless, shaking laugh followed his words. “But not just a hunter, I think.” One of the thinner tentacles snaked forward, twining along its thicker twin as it traveled towards the hunter. It licked up his neck, against his chin, and the hunter was thankful for the cloth mask covering the bottom half of his face, even as he could feel the thick slime soaking into the fabric. As if it knew what he was thinking, the tip of it slipped beneath the material, dangerously close to his mouth, and yanked the mask down.

“No… No… Your prayers have been answered.” That unsettling laughter returned, and the hunter felt something like ice sit heavy in his gut. More of those tendrils were migrating towards him, though the crushing pressure wrapped around him kept his struggles brief and fruitless. “As Rom was, you have been blessed by the Great Ones!”

Rapturous, that was the tone Micolash spoke in, his arms raised up as if in praise, as if in veneration. The man strode forward, bringing more and more tentacles within reach of the hunter. He reached out with his left hand, grabbed the hunter’s damp jaw in a surprisingly steely grip. The hunter’s face crinkled in distaste, and some corner of his mind crowed for him to spit in Micolash’s face.

“Have you been granted eyes?” A tendril suddenly darted out, wound itself around the hunter’s throat, tight enough to restrict his breathing, its tip wriggling near his Adam’s apple. Micolash’s thumb ran along his bottom lip and then the man removed his hand, tipping off the hunter’s hat before taking hold of the short strands of his hair, craning his head back. Towering over him as he was, Micolash actually appeared intimidating to his captive, the iron of his cage casting a lattice of shadows across his face. In rejection of his own thoughts, the hunter glared balefully at the man. The grip in his hair tightened.

“Shall we search, as our mentors did?” Two more tentacles spawned from nothingness, laid against the hunter’s cheeks and pressed at the delicate flesh beneath his eyes. To his mortification, the hunter found himself shuddering at their sticky touch, the light pressure enough to make him feel it behind his eyes, to make it pulse inside his skull. “But that would only awaken you, would it not? No, there must be another way.” 

The hunter jerked in his bonds, stinging pain igniting in the back of his skull as he pulled his own hair free. At last, he opened his mouth to speak, though he wasn’t sure if he intended to plead for his life or beg for his death. He didn’t have a chance to choose as Micolash’s hand clamped against his open mouth, fingers and thumb digging into the flesh of his face on each side. Before he could lock his jaws shut again, he felt the flesh of Micolash’s palm split against his lips, felt something emerge from between the parting tissue and enter his mouth, and _oh god_ , it was another tentacle, tapered at the end but growing thicker as it filled his mouth, wriggled down his throat, and he made a retching noise as it continued, suddenly unable to breathe.

Forgotten weapons clattered to the floor as the hunter’s hands shot up, clutching the thick tendrils that held him still, fingernails carving crescents into their strange flesh. He was still gagging, chest heaving erratically in his panic. Micolash groaned as though he could feel the muscles of the hunter’s throat constricting rhythmically against the intruder, tightening in an effort to force the tentacle out, even as it slid deeper and deeper down. The hunter arched, titled his own head back, entire body shivering as he felt the thing inside him _curl_ , somewhere in his chest, like it was trying to stroke his heart.

 _An honorable death_ , his mind chided, echoing his previous musings. What honor was there in choking to death, kneeling at the foot of your prey? Whenever the hunter tried to bite down, Micolash’s fingers would dig in harder right at the junction of his jaws, holding him open. Stars danced in his vision and then dimmed, and then everything began to dim, and then abruptly the tentacle withdrew completely, the nightmare host removing his hand and even the tendrils wrapped around his chest dissipating.

Coughing, the hunter fell forward onto hands and knees, shaking arms barely enough to support himself. When he finally gave into the urge and heaved, nothing but blood and bile splattered to the floor. The other man was blessedly silent during this, though he could feel Micolash’s eyes like burning brands on his skin. Refusing to look up, the hunter was still staring at the stone tiles when tentacles erupted from the ground beneath him, snaking up his arms and legs and pinning him in place.

Weakly fighting against his bonds, the hunter finally looked up again, baring his teeth in a clear and egotistical threat. Micolash just laughed; both of the zealot’s arms were back in place, as if his body had never been consumed by nightmare. The one-time student of Mensis shuffled forward, and the hunter watched as his hands traveled down his own body, stroked against the thick outline of something straining against the crotch of his uniform. The hunter’s own hands curled into fists against the stone they were held against.

This couldn’t be happening. The hunter watched, as if removed, as Micolash opened his trousers, pulled himself free, and the hunter couldn’t help but to expect yet another mass of tentacles to be unleashed upon him. Instead, somehow worse, it was just the man’s flesh, thick and curving and engorged with blood, the tip almost purple and practically dripping. Some tingling sensation shot along the hunter’s spine, fear and humiliation and something best left unsaid mixing uncomfortably in his stomach, heat pooling even further down.

This wasn’t happening.

But Micolash continued to approach, a too wide grin splitting his face, and the hunter writhed in his binds. The tendrils holding him still constricted, pressing bone aching bruises into his flesh. Blood coursed in his body, to his face and to his groin, and the hunter’s mouth fell open just in time for Micolash to take hold of his jaw again – in his right hand now – and squeeze against the previously abused junction, painting new bruises over the others. The host’s left hand fisted his own cock, briefly running up and down its length before positioning the head against the hunter’s lips.

A growl reverberated in the hunter’s throat, eyes narrowed and promised death to the man in front of him. Micolash laughed, that wracking laugh. And without warning he thrust his hips forward, the tip of his cock ramming into the back of the hunter’s throat, and with his grip against the hunter’s jaw he held him there, moaning as the muscles clenched and constricted around him. 

Even with the crushing grip at the hinge of his jaws, the hunter struggled to bite down, and two more thin tentacles burst from the floor, hooked along the bottom row of his teeth to drag his mouth open even wider. In an echo of the tendril that had come before him, Micolash forced more and more of himself down the hunter’s throat, lingering deep as if relishing the way the muscles of the hunter’s throat spasmed around him. To his everlasting shame, the hunter’s own cock throbbed in time with his heartbeat, with his wounds, and he was thankful the thick flesh in his mouth muffled any sounds that might be forthcoming.

Unexpectedly, Micolash pulled back, leaving the hunter’s mouth hanging emptily open, saliva dripping down his chin. He licked his swollen lips, eying the student of Mensis. More and more tentacles bloomed like weeds from between stones, tearing the hunter’s protective clothing to shreds. With only a few tatters still lingering over his heated flesh, a tendril looped itself around his weeping cock, drawing a shocked moan from the hunter’s mouth.

Another tentacle – one of the thicker ones that made up the bulk of the usual offensive attack – loomed threateningly in from of his face before thrusting itself into his mouth, replacing Micolash’s cock. The hunter’s fists clenched tighter, digging crescents into the skin of his palms, and the wonton sounds he made were muffled entirely against the rubbery, slimy flesh of the tentacle. The tendril around his dick moved in rhythmic motions, up and down and occasionally swirling around him, and the thick flesh in mouth followed the same pattern, had him surging and thrusting forwards, his entire body begging for more. 

Micolash’s presence behind him was revealed as a cool palm pressed against the small of his back, skin flush against skin before the host dug his nails in, gouging fine shallow lines in the plane of the hunter’s unmarred back. The hunter felt Micolash thrust against him, the head of the zealot’s cock not breaching him but brushing, wet, against his opening. Another full body shiver ran through the captive man, and then he felt a wet tendril press at him, working itself past tense and quivering muscle.

It opened him slowly, almost teasingly, and the hunter found himself grateful for the otherworldly tendril that filled his mouth, at least did something to muffle the cries and moans that were forcefully drug from his throat. Almost too soon, he felt the flared head of Micolash’s cock pressing against him, slowly, agonizingly slowly breaching him, and the hunter jerked his hips back, begging to be impaled, his movements only inhibited by the tentacles that still twined around his legs, up his thighs, holding him still.

Hands – human hands, thank god – were on his shoulders then, and a hard thrust had Micolash fully sheathed inside him, and the tentacle at his mouth dove deep inside him, as though it was striving to reach its creator. The hunter shook, in pain and pleasure, and they both – Micolash and his tentacle familiar – pulled out in unison, and thrust back inside him, leaving the hunter with nowhere to go, groaning incoherent pleas around the flesh in his mouth, in throat.

Their pace continued, perfectly in unison, each thrust from Micolash sending the tentacle further down his throat and each shove from the tendril sending him crashing back onto Micolash’s cock, stretched in every opening. The wet coil around his cock tightened, stroked up and down his length, had his hips jerking in time with the man above him. 

At some point, the tentacle withdrew from his mouth, and the tentacles simply held him in place, crying out with each forceful push, the hunter pressing back on his own into Micolash’s thrusts. He could feel heat pooling low in his stomach, all of his muscles tensing, straining towards completion. One final thrust of the host’s cock into him had him spilling over the consuming tendrils, limbs shaking and a wordless moan on his lips.

Micolash continued, fucking into him with bone shattering thrusts, before hauling him close and coming deep inside him, a broke gasp on the zealot’s lips. The host of their nightmare thrust a few more times, as if trying to bury his seed as deep within in the hunter as possible, and then the tendrils dissipated, the hunter collapsing as though boneless onto the cool floor.

Both were quiet except for their breathless pants, the hunter laying still in a puddle of his own cum, even as he could feel milky liquid weeping out between his thighs. He struggled to pull himself up, limbs weak. There was a pressure against the back of his neck that he almost felt like leaning into, and then it snapped, jerking the vertebrae of his spine unnaturally, and he felt himself slipping away from that dream, fog and darkness swirling together, disorientating him.

And he awoke again at a lantern, lifting himself from a kneeling position.


End file.
